


A Wild Thing

by kuiske



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Poor Thorin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuiske/pseuds/kuiske
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield has more things in common with a nervous pony than you might initially suspect. </p><p>(It's also far less amusing than that makes it sound, although Dwalin is inclined to disagree.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wild Thing

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not making money with this. All rights reserved to their respective owners.

Thorin should’ve expected it. 

He had been on edge the entire day, trying to keep himself from flinching at unexpected sounds and sudden movements. At birds flying past, too close. At children running on the street bursting into laughter or excited screams, erratic, too loud. Actually he _did_ expect it, it just didn’t do him any good. All it took was a deafening crash somewhere behind his back, metal against metal, and a tide of blood and crashed over him. All senses alert he fell into combat stance on pure instinct with only the hammer in his hand anchoring him to reality. He gripped it with all his strength, frozen on the spot as he fought to concentrate on nothing but the familiar feel of the tool in his hand – a hammer, not a sword! – not now, please, not _here_ …

He wasn’t sure how long it took, he never was, time slowed down and sped up and it felt like forever – but suddenly he was back at the makeshift forge in a nameless village, drenched in sweat and gasping for breath like one drowning, with hundreds of miles and half a decade separating him from the Dimrill Dale. There were no armies, no one attacking him, no one bleeding or dying and like as not it’d been some farm tool falling off a wagon that had him jumping out of his skin. Heart still beating uncomfortably fast he turned back to is work – and froze up again when he saw a Mannish child standing only a few feet away from him, completely still and watching his every move. 

Very slowly the child pulled an apple out of her pocket and held it out to him.

Thorin stared at the slightly dented fruit as if it were an angry snake. He had no idea why the child was apparently offering it to him, but he knew it would be a _very_ bad idea to take it. He couldn’t risk starting rumours of theft by accepting anything without payment and he certainly couldn’t pay for it, they had no coin to spare. He couldn’t tell her to leave and risk insulting her; they needed the work this village could give them, but he shouldn’t engage her, dark tales of dwarves stealing children greeted them where-ever they went and Men usually didn’t like them anywhere near their women and children. That was probably it, she was probably afraid of him and trying to trade a fruit for her life and freedom or some other superstition. Or it could be the child was deliberately baiting him into taking the apple only to demand money for it or start screaming if he did, to see if she could get the dwarves driven out of the village. She didn’t _look_ particularly hostile, but you never knew, and they _desperately_ needed the work this village could give them.

Thorin could feel himself tensing up again. He had no idea what he was supposed to do, his mind raced faster even than his heart and all of his options seemed equally bad. 

The child was still looking at him, chewing her lower lip a little uncertainly. 

“You should eat this,” she said, holding out the apple again. “You look like my pony.”

“What?” the question slipped out before Thorin had the chance to bite his tongue.

“Well, you don’t _look_ look like her, _obviously_ , except the hair,” she said rolling her eyes with a precocious sort of self-importance. “But Grandma says someone must have beat her up really badly, and I don’t, but sometimes she forgets and she gets scared and all wild and I’m supposed to be really still and wait for her to remember again, and I forgot once and tried to touch her and I’ve got a _really_ big scar on my leg now. But she gets all sweaty and shaky and it looks _just_ like that,” she gestured vaguely towards him.

“Anyway, you should take this,” she shook the apple a little. “Grandma says I’m supposed to give Meg – that’s her name, my pony’s, it’s actually Nutmeg but that’s too long to say – she says I’m supposed to give her something nice to eat afterwards so she knows it’s okay and to not be scared.”

The child spoke _fast_ and Thorin stared at her in mild confusion trying to process what she was saying to him. 

_Poor beaten thing._

His pride flared up in a sudden flash of mindless, blind fury and he wanted nothing more than to lash out and _snarl_ at her that he didn’t need her _pity_ , to _scream_ at her to leave him _alone_. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt, he was choking on his rage, and he knew he wasn’t going to say anything, he couldn’t _afford_ to say anything at all, to anyone here. The shame of it all stung until his skin felt on fire, almost as painful as the violent shock of revulsion and utter contempt he felt at his own self for his mad desire to scare a _child_ into fleeing him in terror. Beneath his cacophony of conflicting emotions there was something else; a thought burning at the back of his throat, a thought his mind rebelled against with a curious sense of dull detachment. 

_Kind. She’s trying to be kind._

What was he supposed to do with that?

Thorin took half a step backwards, exhausted all of a sudden. All his anger bled out and he felt decades, _centuries_ older than his years. And the child just _stood_ there waiting for him to answer, as if the situation was completely normal, as if she shouldn’t have been frightened of him, as if she shouldn’t have been _disgusted_ to look at him. He shook his head curtly and tried to put together some approximation of a polite refusal.

“No,” Thorin hardly recognised his own voice. “I… thank you. But I can’t take that.”

“You’re being silly,” the child said a little accusingly. “I said I’d go straight back home from mister Pegg’s place so I can’t really stay here and wait, so I’ll just leave this here and you can take it when you stop being silly.” 

Before he had a chance to protest she set the apple down on a ploughshare waiting for repair and sprinted away, right past Dwalin who was returning from the camp with a few bars of better iron than could be found in this village. 

Dwalin caught a brief look at the child, glanced at the apple and finally looked steadily at Thorin. There was an unspoken question and no small amount of amusement on his face, both of which Thorin ignored in favour of rubbing his temples.

“All right?” Dwalin asked with some concern after taking a second look at him.

“Fine.”

Dwalin didn’t press the issue, he knew Thorin well enough to be familiar with this particular brand of _fine_. They set to work without another word, and after a while Thorin could feel himself relaxing a little to the even, comforting rhythm of a hammer shaping glowing iron. It wasn’t until Dwalin picked up the ploughshare to see how badly it was damaged that either of them spoke again.

“So. What’s this about?” Dwalin asked, tossing the apple in the air.

Thorin considered all the possible explanations for the utterly absurd situation, but finally he just gave a resigned sort of sigh.

“Apparently, I reminded her of her pony.”

*

Thorin lay down on his bedroll every muscle aching from a hard day of work and listened to Dwalin shuffling right outside the tent, cursing a little as he struggled with his boots. When Dwalin finally crawled in and settled down next to him Thorin felt an involuntary sound of pleasure escape his throat. They were still new to this and Dwalin's arm snaking around his middle felt nothing short of a miracle. A couple of months weren't enough for him to have gotten over the sneaking suspicion that there had to have been some mistake, that maybe he’d somehow imagined the warm body pressing against his back at nights. Dwalin seemed to enjoy reassuring him. His mouth on Thorin’s neck was a combination of coarse beard and soft lips, and then a gust of hot breath when he suddenly sniggered against his skin.

“Do I get to ride the royal pony?” Dwalin whispered to his ear.

Thorin was fairly certain he felt a part of his soul shrivel up and die there and then. He should’ve known better than to tell that to his complete and utter _arsehole_ of a best friend-turned-lover.

“Not after _that_ you aren’t,” he groaned.

“Aw, why not? I promise I’ll brush you up nice and everything.”

Thorin most definitely did not have to stifle an involuntary snort of laughter. Hid _did_ elbow Dwalin in the ribs though. Hard.

“Vicious one, aren’t you?” Dwalin was grinning from ear to ear, Thorin could hear it in his voice. “Bite and kick and buck and all that? Well, they _do_ say all the best mounts have a bit of fire in them…”

“ _Dwalin_ …” 

“There’s a carrot in it for you.”

“That **does** it!”

Thorin spun around and threw himself on top of Dwalin, nailing his shoulders firmly on the ground.

“Dwalin Fundinul,” he spoke with the all the cool formality he could muster. “You stand accused of lack of due respect towards your King, taking a joke too far and believing it was funny in the first place. How do you respond?”

“You need to loosen up, your Highness.” 

“You’re not helping your case.”

“Oh? And what’re you gonna do about it?” Dwalin’s grin got even wider and his voice took an overtly suggestive note. “Are you going to _punish_ me for it?”

Thorin bent down to kiss him, unable to bite back a smile of his own. 

“Oh yes,” he breathed and caught Dwalin’s lower lip briefly between his teeth. “ _Severely_.” 

Dwalin’s response sounded like something between a moan and a huff of laughter. 

“Guilty, your Highness. _So_ guilty. I confess everything.”

Thorin resisted the urge to roll his eyes and rolled his hips against Dwalin’s slowly and deliberately and kissed him again, longer and deeper this time. When he felt Dwalin starting to get hard he broke the kiss, face spreading into his most radiant smile.

“You’re hereby sentenced to cook breakfast tomorrow,” he announced imperiously and collapsed dramatically sideways, off Dwalin and back to his own bedroll.

Dwalin blinked in dazed confusion, eyes still dark from arousal.

“It’s _your_ turn,”

“It _was_ ,” Thorin made some show of stretching and then turned his back and burrowed under his blanket, shaking with badly suppressed laughter.

“That’s _it_?!”

“That’s it,” Thorin confirmed.

“You’re not leaving me like this!” Dwalin groaned in exasperation. “I demand a retrial.” 

“Denied.”

“Tyrant.”

“Mhh-hm.” 

Dwalin curled his fist around the loose braid Thorin wore for sleeping and gave it a sharp tug.

“ _Cock-tease_ ,” he growled low, teeth grazing against Thorin’s skin, 

Thorin grinned at him over his shoulder and pressed a chaste kiss on the tip of his nose.

“ _Do_ sleep well.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you got the feeling that the entire point of this fic was to set up a frame for some bad pony innuendo... you're completely right. 
> 
> *points at Saetha* I'm innocent, _she_ made me do it!


End file.
